A Safe Girl to Love

By Casey Plett

A new edition of the acclaimed debut story collection by two-time Lambda Literary Award winner Casey Plett.

By the author of Little Fish and A Dream of a Woman: eleven unique short stories featuring young trans women stumbling through loss, sex, harassment, and love in settings ranging from a rural Mennonite town to a hipster gay bar in Brooklyn. These stories, shiny with whiskey and prairie sunsets, rattling subways and neglected cats, show that growing up as a trans girl can be charming, funny, frustrating, or sad, but will never be predictable. 

A Safe Girl to Love, winner of the Lambda Literary Award for transgender fiction, was first published in 2014. Now back in print after a long absence, this new edition includes an afterword by the author.

This publication meets the EPUB Accessibility requirements and it also meets the Web Content Accessibility Guidelines (WCAG-AA). It is screen-reader friendly and is accessible to persons with disabilities. A Simple book with few images, which is defined with accessible structural markup. This book contains various accessibility features such as alternative text for images, table of contents, page-list, landmark, reading order and semantic structure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arsenal Pulp Press
• Release date: Apr 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9781551529141

Casey Plett

Casey Plett is the author of A Dream of a Woman, Little Fish, and A Safe Girl to Love, the co-editor of Meanwhile, Elsewhere: Science Fiction and Fantasy From Transgender Writers, and the publisher at LittlePuss Press. She has written for the New York Times, Harper’s Bazaar, the Guardian, Globe and Mail, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, the Winnipeg Free Press, and other publications. A winner of the Amazon First Novel Award and the Firecracker Award for Fiction, and a two-time winner of the Lambda Literary Award, her work has also been nominated for the Scotiabank Giller Prize. 

Book preview

Other Women

My mom picked me up fresh off the red-eye and we went for donuts. It was the day before Christmas Eve. I told her all the fun parts about living in Portland and she listened and hummed and marched her way through a Tim Hortons dozen. When I asked her about life at the hospital, she said well, thanks for asking. It’s just fine. I was silent for a bit so she would know I wanted to hear more, and then she told me a story about how another nurse had misheard a 99 code and went pin-balling through the hospital halls to find a patient not at death’s door, as she had thought, but sitting with her newborn grandchild. That’s funny, I said. Yeah, she said, running a hand through her wispy hair.

She didn’t say anything about gender the whole day, which was nice of her. It was my first time home in Winnipeg since I asked everyone to call me Sophie about six months ago, after I moved away last January. I wanted my visit to be a Christmas the same as any other. Mom’s been trying to call me Sophie, but it’s hard for her.

She left to work a shift around two and I called Megan. Dude, where the fuck have you been! she said.

Putting in mom time, I said.

Gayyyyy! she said. Megan says that a lot, though she’s slept with more women than I have.

Dude, she said. I moved to Corydon, I live by the Blue Cactus now. It’s great. I never have to worry about driving drunk. Meet me at my place though. I gotta return some bottles. If you wanna help me?

Megan always asks me to run errands or do housework and stuff with her, which I like. I like that hanging out doesn’t have to mean coffee or dinner or drinks or some bullshit. We met in Grade 9 math and bonded over stuff like Philip Roth and Papa Roach, and we hung out for the first time when she asked me if I wanted to come over and help make dinner for her great-aunt. That was ten years ago.

When I got to her building she was already outside, carrying bags of bottles to her car. I rush-hugged her and she dropped the bags and we teetered back and forth on the sidewalk with our boots creaking on the snow like rocking chairs. You look so good, she said. You look so good.

Thank you, I said. You do too, you really do. Merry Motherfucking Christmas. She pulled me tighter and released.

Megan looked the same, actually, though I’ve always thought she looked amazing. Thicket of blueberry-blue hair. Water-green eyes the shape of grapes. Still refused to wear a coat appropriate for living in the middle of Canada, layering on padded hoodies instead.

We went upstairs to bag the rest of her bottles and take a shot of rum before heading out. It’s my roommate’s, she said, I need to get another bottle for him when we’re out. Remind me.

Right before we left she said okay, sorry, I have to ask. Do they look like man boobs or are they real girl-looking boobs? I didn’t want to answer. I’m only a year on hormones, but even though I’m a B cup, I’m also six feet and they still seem small. They do look like girl boobs if you see them without clothes though, so I said, do you wanna—? and she said yes before I could finish. I felt like a dopey teenager flashing her, but I feel like a dopey teenager a lot lately.

She nodded in this approving way. They’re girl boobs, she said. Nice. Shit. I want to take pills to grow my boobs. I said sell you mine. Five bucks each. She slapped me around the middle and said, you’re such a fucking pusher! She laughed at herself. Then there was a key in the door and I had to straighten my bra. A short guy walked in with snow stuck to one side of his curly hair and his U of M parka.

Hey Mark, Megan said. This is Sophie. We drank the last of your rum. I’m getting another bottle now though.

Oh cool, he said, in a high, lilting voice. Hi, I’m Mark, he said.

Sophie, I said. I stuck out my hand and he shook it awkwardly. I made a note to pay attention to whether men and women shook hands with each other. All these new social cues are confusing.

You fall down? Megan asked, nodding to the snow on his side.

Yeah, he said. These three big guys came up to me and told me to give them my parka, so I started running. I tripped after about two blocks. I don’t think they tried to chase me though.

Yay Winnipeg, I said. Yeah, whatever, Megan said. Let’s go.

You got a girlfriend in the States yet? Megan asked in the car.

No. You got a boy?

No. Boys don’t like me. I said that couldn’t be true, that she was beautiful, and she said well thank you, in that way you might tell a guy on the street that you’ve got no change on you, sorry, so sorry.

Megan and I never dated, but we did have sex once, my first year of university, when we were really high. We just pretended it hadn’t happened in the morning. She said, good luck on your midterm, and I said, have fun at work, and she kissed me on the neck and left. Then I tried to fall back asleep in her bed but I couldn’t, so I got dressed, took one of her shirts, and left. I wish I hadn’t lost the shirt, this stretchy bright-green thing. I wonder how it’d look on me now that I have boobs.

Your heat not work? I asked Megan. It was thirty below outside, and it didn’t feel much different inside her car.

’S a piece of shit. Takes a while.

Blech.

Eh.

HOLY FUCK! she screamed and braked. SHIT! We were in an intersection, and a red sedan on the cross street had braked too late for driving on snow and ice and was skidding sideways into our path. OH SHIT, I yelled, and then the sedan’s back door collided with the front right corner of Megan’s car. We slammed forward in our seats and stopped and there was a terrible mass clank of bottles in the trunk.

You okay? Megan said immediately.

Yeah, I said.

Good. She got out of the car. YOU FUCKIN’ BRAIN DAMAGED OR SOMETHING?! she yelled. The driver was an old man with a red toque sliding off his head, staring slack-jawed at Megan.

She strode over to the car and he got out and straightened his toque and said he was very sorry, oh shoot, he was very, very sorry, and Megan said yeah, you better be. Then all businesslike she said, Come on, let’s get out of the road and do the insurance. Can your car go?

He said he thought it could, and we skittered over to a side street. He sounded like a nice guy. We actually buddied up to him by the end. There wasn’t much damage anyway since we’d both been going twenty klicks on impact. Just some dents. The guy shook our hands and said he was so sorry he caused such a nice guy and gal a hard day. Megan grunted and didn’t say anything and then he left. It’s petty, but I wish she had. Just said something like actually, we’re both nice gals. Nothing nasty. Instead she looked at me and rolled her eyes. Then we checked the bottles. Only one had broke.

I don’t know why I can’t just say for myself: Actually, I’m not a guy. I get this awful image of being like a little kid saying Look, no, I’m reaaaally a girl. I promise. I super promise! I wanted someone else to step up and say you’re wrong buddy-o, that there is a chick, she’s no man and you should get your eyes checked.

Winter coats make it hard to see my new body shape, too, I guess. I used to love that about winter.

By the way, said Megan, picking up on my mood, I know this is kind of random, but I really like how your freckles have come out now.

Thanks, I said, blushing. That was nice to hear.

We returned Megan’s bottles then went to the Blue Cactus and got hammered. After a couple hours Megan got a text and said shit! I need to get rum for Mark.

Where’d you meet that kid anyway? I slurred.

Friend of a friend. Why?

Never seen him around before.

Yeah, I don’t really know much about him, actually, she said. I’ve only lived with him like two months. And he doesn’t talk that much. She threw back the rest of her Blue Hurricane. He’s from the country. We gotta start walking.

Fuuuuck, I said. I shot the last of the vodka soda I’d just ordered. Thatta girl, she said.

Mark! Megan said, throwing back the front door.

Maaaaaaaark! I said, following her with the liquor bag.

M-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-rk! we both sang together, on a third, then a fifth. Old joke. We used to sneak up and surprise people in high school like that. Mark looked up from the cello he’d been playing. There was a pipe full of ash and an Altoids tin on the table, and his eyes looked like Superballs floating in tomato soup.

Got your rum, roomie! Megan said. I gave the bag to her and she slammed it onto the table.

Oh cool. Thanks, he said. What are you ladies up to? He enunciated his words precisely and clearly in a way that made him sound almost but not quite British.

We shrugged. I gotta get home in a bit, I said. There’s no fuckin’ way you could drive, is there, I said to Megan.

She laughed and said, I don’t think I could read.

Okay, I said. I did want to get home before my mom did. I didn’t like the thought of her coming back to an empty house on my first day. I still had a couple hours though. Megan put on Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and Mark packed a bowl for him and me. It cool if we smoke? I said to Megan. She murmured sure. She used to smoke a lot but gave it up around a year ago.

Megan fell asleep in the first ten minutes of the flick and Mark and I started taking shots of the rum. We didn’t speak through our respective hazes for most of the next two hours, except to say things like holy shit and what the fuck. Neither of us had seen the movie.

When it ended, I had half an hour before my mom got home, so I tried to wake up Megan, but she just kept smacking her lips and turning over in her chair.

I gotta get home, I said.

She snort-laughed into a cushion. Are you kidding? I can’t drive.

Dude! I said, more angrily than I meant to sound. I have to get home!

We’ll die if I drive, so that won’t help you.

Megan! I said. Jesus Sophie, she said, her face not lifting up from the cushion. Just get Mark to do it. Her blue hair was covering her face and her outer hoodie was blue and she looked like an angry drunken Skittle. I told her this. She told me to blow myself.

Drive? Mark said. Sure.

No! It’s okay, I said. I’ll just call my mom. I went into the building hallway. I was disappointed. I liked being in Megan’s car.

I called the hospital and they told me she was busy but they’d tell her to call me back. I went back into the apartment and Megan was gone. Mark was playing his cello. I tilted my head in question and looked at the empty chair.

She went off to sleep, he said. Are you getting picked up?

She’s gonna call me back, I said. I slouched against the wall. Walking had reawakened the booze and the weed and I was getting the spins. Hey, I’m sorry to bother you, I said, wincing. Like, I’m sorry, but can I steal the couch from you? I sank down the wall to the floor. I really need to lie down, I said.

Absolutely, he said. He picked up his cello. Go for it.

Thanks, I said. He disappeared down a hallway. I rolled over to the couch and slithered onto it from the floor. Then I dozed off.

I woke up to Mark tapping my arm. Sorry, he whispered, I just thought you might be glad to have these when you woke up. He was sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor. Next to him were a thin pillow and a green-and-black blanket. Next to those was a large tumbler of ice water, and next to that was a bag of Old Dutch ketchup chips. Sorry, he said, seeing my eyes meet the chips, it was the only food I could find that you don’t have to cook.

I laughed. Aw. You’re nice, Mark.

He stuck his arms out and palms up in an aw-shucks gesture. Oh, I’m not that nice, he said. You just have to get to know me first. I said ah. I took the pillow and blanket and sat up covered. Then I drank all the ice water.

I’ll get you some more, he said.

Aw, no, it’s okay, I said. I lay down again.

It’s no biggie, he said, you are very welcome here. He came back with a refilled glass. I thanked him.

So what do you do, Mark? I said, looking at him sideways from the pillow. I liked saying his name. It sounded crisp.

I’m an engineer. Or that’s what I study, at least. I’m a civil engineer, like the kind that designs bridges.

I know what a civil engineer is, I said. It came out meaner than I meant it to.

Oh, cool. Well, I am one of those, he said, unperturbed.

Well, look at you, eh? I said, trying to sound nice. A pot-smoking, cello-playing, civil engineer.

He laughed, a quick, two-toned treble laugh, like the sound of getting a coin in old Super Mario Bros. games. Ba-ding! Ha ha! Heya, he said, doing the aw-shucks gesture again. I try my best, honey. What do you do?

I am a master of the shipping and receiving arts, I said. Books specifically.

Oh, cool. That makes sense.

It does?

Yeah, he said. I was wondering, because of your figure.

What?

Well, from a distance you just look skinny, he said. And you are skinny, he said quickly.

This was a lie, I was one ninety-five. But I appreciated the thought.

But really up close you can see your muscles, like, you’re quite toned. But it’s subtle. It’s work strength, not gym strength. He paused, looking thoughtful. You look really good, he said suddenly. You pull it off. You look tough and pretty.

I blushed. Thank you, I said softly. He smiled and said just the truth.

Suddenly I really wanted to know if he was straight or not. I wasn’t into men, but I wanted him to be into women. He burnt a hole through my gaydar.

He did make me feel pretty though, regardless.

My mom called back. I took out my phone and it rubbed against the five o’clock shadow on the cleft of my chin. I stopped feeling pretty.

Hey, my mom said. We got a few patients in at the last minute who need a lot of documentation, so I’m going to be late coming home. Normally they wouldn’t do this, of course, she said. But they don’t have to pay me overtime because I have the next few days off. Anyway, so. Don’t wait up for me before you go to sleep or anything.

Okay, I said. I tried to use as few words as possible. I’m at Megan’s now, I said. Mark mimed asking if I wanted to sleep here, tilting his head toward his pressed-together hands, then pointing toward the couch.

Oh, okay, Mom said, her voice characteristically blank. It was hard enough to suss out her feelings even when you weren’t drunk and high. I wondered if she was mad. She didn’t offer to give me a ride, so I guessed she didn’t care if I came home or not.

I might just stay here, I said. If that’s okay? I’m really sleepy.

That’s fine, Mom said. We could go for lunch tomorrow if you’d like. I said that’d be great and then we hung up.

Thank you, I said to Mark.

Oh cool, yes, of course, he said. His eyes had contracted enough by now that I could see they were a deep brown. They’d looked so black before. Do you need anything? he said.

No, I’m fine, I said. Thanks. You’re nice. I laid my head down. He got up and waved goofily. Goodnight, Sophie, he said.

Thanks for the hospitality! I yelled quietly as he closed his door, but I couldn’t tell if he heard. I heard him stumble over something in his room and say ow fuck before his bed creaked with weight.

---

Mom and I spent all of Christmas Eve together. We went to Earls for lunch, then to the Forks to go ice skating. I kept speeding up, and then I’d see I was losing her so I had to wait for her to catch up. You Americans are always trying to get ahead, she said. We laughed. I started sweating from all the exercise, so I opened my coat and let it fly around my arms and the air felt deliciously cold.

We went to Robin’s for donuts and coffee afterward and that’s when Mom asked me if I felt safe down in the States. I said mostly I did, why?

Well, it’s America. She paused. And there’s your new lifestyle.

Yeah, I know, I said.

She looked at me hard. I hope you do, she said. There are certainly a lot of—she paused—rude people out there.

Yeah, I know, I said. I’m alert, I promise. I’ve been fine. Portland’s safe and it’s really friendly to people like me. It’s safer than here actually. I paused. Last night, we didn’t go out or anything, we were inside. She said well, that’s good to hear, and took a double chocolate and broke it in half.

It’s not true. That everything’s always friendly. I was at a bar a few weeks back and some guys threatened to throw a knife in my face. Someone yelled fuckin’ faggot! when I was walking home the other day. I moved to Portland partly on word that it was a queer-dripping liberal dream, but I wish I’d researched geographic specifics before I signed a lease on 104th and Powell. Honestly, I just feel lucky no one’s tried to punch me yet. Or stab me. But Mom doesn’t need to hear any of that.

She took the trans thing pretty hard. It wasn’t bad when I came out to her a couple years ago, admitted I wore dresses, told her I was just thinking about transitioning. She’d listened and frowned and said, okay, well. I think you make a fantastic son, and I certainly hope you can learn to love yourself as a male.

So that was a relief. It was when I told her last year I was going on hormones that she said oh lord really softly, and then kept excusing herself to go to the bathroom ’til finally I said, Mom, just bring the Kleenex box here, I know you’re crying, it’s okay! Just please can we talk about this? I don’t know why that was so important, why I had to talk right away when she just wanted to go cry alone and process. There was a long silence and I asked her what she was thinking. All of the things I did wrong, she said. She didn’t say much else because she was trying to think of something positive to say, because my mom doesn’t know how to say hurtful things to people she loves. She finally said well, your acne will get better. Will it? I said. She said yup, ’cause you’ll have to take spironolactone, and that’s something they often use to treat acne.

It was hard after that. She stopped signing her emails Love, Mom. Stopped going out in public with me. Those were rough months. Another reason I moved to the States was because I thought we might never be close again and the idea of staying in Winnipeg with the ghost of her memories on every corner made me nuts. I vomited once, just a little in my mouth, alone in my living room, over the thought of losing her.

We got a lot closer after I moved, though. She even called me her daughter last month. That was really nice.

We spent the rest of the day at home. Read books, chatted. I helped her clean the bathroom. We were eating takeout for dinner when she asked me what I was wearing to church tomorrow.

Our family always met up at my grandparents’ on Christmas morning for coffee and pastries before church. We’ve done it every year since they moved to the city when I was five. My mom and I weren’t religious, but we went to church on Christmas. Family.

When my mother was eighteen, she and my dad renounced the church and eloped to the city from a town south of here. Three years later they had me, and two months before that she booted my dad out of the house for reasons that neither of them will tell me. I don’t see my dad that much. He lives in the BC Interior somewhere. He moves a lot.

Their families were Mennonites, not the kind so hardcore as to shun electricity and cities Amish style, but enough that apostasy was kind of a